


The Thylacine

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "Thylacines. That's what Sophia called them, all those years ago in Van Diemen's Land. Dogs with tiger stripes, cats with pouches. They stretch their jaws at him, as Francis struggles to sit. The movement makes his head spin. He pushes the discomfort aside. He has no time to entertain it; he must escape."
Relationships: Sophia Cracroft/Captain Francis Crozier, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 5
Kudos: 46





	The Thylacine

**Author's Note:**

> For the Terror Bingo square "Van Diemen's Land."

“It's a thylacine,” Miss Cracroft says. 

Whatever it's called, it's a terror. Stuffed and mounted in the drawing room of the governor's mansion, the creature at first glance appears canine. It is the size of a fairly large dog, but there's something strangely catlike about it, as well. Its back half is striped like a tiger, its tail narrow and stiff. The taxidermist chose to pose it with its jaws open at an enormous angle, showing off sharp teeth which shine in the afternoon sunlight. 

“We ran into one the other day, when we took the horses out,” Miss Cracroft goes on. She's dressed very nicely, in a pretty pink gown Francis hasn't seen before. Not that he's seen much of her wardrobe in his short time here. And not that Miss Sophia Cracroft wouldn't make a rat-bitten gunnysack look divine. “The riding master shot it, of course. Horrible thing. They say it carries its young in a pouch.” 

"Unnatural," Francis says. _But then_ , he counters himself, _surely nothing made by God can be considered unnatural?_

“To change the subject, Commander,” Miss Cracroft goes on, “my lady's maid is dreadfully keen to know if your man Jopson is married.” 

“Jopson?” Francis turns away from the thylacine to face the woman at his side. For the first time since Francis arrived in Hobart, they are unchaperoned. Sir John is occupied with Captain Ross; even Miss Cracroft's battleaxe of an aunt has other things to do. Francis is taking advantage of this freedom to sit very close to her indeed, his leg resting so near hers they nearly touch. Miss Cracroft has made no complaint. “I don't think he's interested in women.” 

“Oh. I see.” A knowing look comes to Sophia's eyes. “Monk or Mary Anne?” 

“I don't know,” Francis answers, honestly. He hasn't spent much time pondering Jopson's proclivities. The man doesn't go panting after doxies, the way the others do when they're ashore, and he's never mentioned a wife or a sweetheart waiting at home. 

“Never mind, then. I'll tell poor Sarah she must cast her gaze elsewhere. Although it is quite a challenge to find a handsome young man out here who isn't some sort of transported criminal.” Miss Cracroft gives Francis a little smile. Slowly, she extends a small, delicately manicured hand in his direction, resting it gently on Francis' thigh. “Would you care to take a turn in the garden with me, Commander Crozier? There are some lovely spots, quite hidden from view of the house, if you are of a mind for peace and quiet.” She looks at him meaningfully.

Francis can feel himself blushing. Still, he stands, offering an arm to this remarkable young creature. "Miss Cracroft, nothing could please me more.” 

***

Francis' cabin is pitch black, and scorching hot. Rivers of sweat run down his back, soaking his nightshirt and the bedsheets beneath him. Fitfully, he kicks off the blankets, pushing them to the bottom of the bunk. It's then, gazing down to the end of his berth, that Francis sees them. 

Eyes. A dozen of them, red and fierce, glowing in the dark. Francis gasps, his breath catching in his throat as his heart hammers a staccato rhythm. 

“Go away!” He endeavours to shout. His voice comes out a hoarse whisper. “Go away,” he tries again, lashing out fruitlessly with an arm. More eyes appear, surrounding him on all sides. “What are you?” Squinting into the dark, he receives a reply. 

Thylacines. That's what Sophia called them, all those years ago in Van Diemen's Land. Dogs with tiger stripes, cats with pouches. They stretch their jaws at him, as Francis struggles to sit. The movement makes his head spin. He pushes the discomfort aside. He has no time to entertain it; he must escape. 

A thin strip of light around the door is Francis' beacon. Staggering upright, he balances himself with a hand on the bulkhead. The beasts stare at him, but do not advance. “That's right!” He sneers at them. “Thought you'd found easy prey, did you?” Emboldened, he kicks out at a small one nearby, disturbing his own centre of balance. The thylacine retreats a little, hiding behind a bigger specimen while Francis rights himself. 

It is then he notices the noise. At first, he assumes it's coming from within the room, but while the thylacines continue to gape their jaws menacingly, they appear to be silent. And this sound is more human in quality. A low groan, almost a moan. It stops, then repeats itself. 

Francis hesitates, but not for long. One of the larger thylacines lunges at him, and he knows he has no choice. Whatever is out there is surely better than what is in here. Clutching the front of his sopping nightshirt in one hand, like a lady lifting her skirts out of the mud, Francis staggers across the room and flings open the door. 

The great cabin is dimly lit, but it is enough for Francis to see an astonishing scene laid out before him. Jopson is grappling with an adversary. Not a thylacine, it appears. A man. He has chosen a strange way to go about it, but many years have passed since Jopson was last pressed to fight. Considering that, he seems to be doing quite well. He has the upper hand, at least, sitting astride the villain upon one of the chairs in the great cabin. His head is tipped back—that is poor form, as it exposes his throat to the enemy—and each of his hands restrains the blackguard's wrists against the arms of the chair. Jopson is moving, raising and lowering his body over his adversary's. Francis is not sure of the purpose of this repeated action, but it seems to have subdued the man. 

“Well done, Jopson!” Again, Francis' voice is less hearty than he would like. He coughs and tries again. “Get my pistol, and we'll have the bastard!” 

In all their years together, Francis has never seen his steward move so quickly. He tumbles from his position onto the floor, then rights himself at once, yanking up his trousers which, it seems, were down around his ankles. 

“Captain, sir! You shouldn't be out of bed.” In a flash, Jopson is at his side. An arm goes around his shoulders. Jopson tries to shepherd Francis back into his cabin, but Francis plants his feet. 

“We can't go in there.” 

“Why not, sir?”

“Thylacines.” 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Thylacines! Thylacines! You were in Van Diemen's Land. Bloody teeth.” Francis frowns. Everything feels muddled. “You were fighting...” He looks over his shoulder. Lieutenant Little sits in the chair, a book resting on his lap and a remarkably flushed look on his face. 

“Captain,” Little says, in his usual, serious way.

Jopson's voice sounds a little more breathless than normal when he replies, “Fighting? Not at all, sir. Lieutenant Little and I were just having a bit of a chat before we turn in for the night.” 

“Oh.” That is more reasonable than the alternative. “But we cannot enter the cabin. The thylacines are in there, I swear it.” Even as he says the words, Francis doubts them. 

“Shall I have a look?" 

“Be careful,” Francis advises. He knows before Jopson goes into the room that he will find nothing. 

For once, he's right. 

Like a child, Francis sits and watches Jopson change his sweat-sodden bedsheets. Then, he helps Francis himself into a fresh nightshirt. 

“Would you like me to stay here in the room with you?” He asks, tucking the blankets around Francis. 

“Don't bloody humour me,” Francis snaps back, but such anger is unnecessary, and ungrateful. It is not Jopson's fault Francis is an addled fool. “Thank you, Mr. Jopson. Return to your conversation with the lieutenant. I'm certain he is missing you.” An odd expression passes over Jopson's face, then disappears. 

“I'll be just outside if you need me, then.” 

“Thank you,” Francis repeats. “Good night, Jopson.” 

“Good night, sir.” He shuts the door behind him.

As Francis dangles on the precipice of sleep, a voice whispers, _You know what they were doing._ Before he can grasp the thought, it slips through his fingers and Francis falls back into unsettled unconsciousness. 

***

“Good morning, sir!” Francis is awake when Jopson comes in the next morning, if just barely. He blinks as Jopson pushes back the curtains, admitting the thin, grey light of a weak sun. 

Jopson moves the chamber pot nearer to the berth. Standing beside Francis, he helps him bunch his nightshirt to his waist, then looks politely away as Francis points his prick at the pot. As usual, thoughts fly about Francis' mind, like loose papers in a gale. He plucks one from the air as a torrent of piss gushes from his cock. “Do you remember Van Diemen's Land?” 

Jopson hesitates before he replies. “Whatever made you think of that?" 

Francis doesn't know. “Nothing really.” He finishes, then raises his arms and lets Jopson pull off his nightshirt, replacing it with another from the basket he brought in with him. “Sophia's lady's maid had her eye on you,” Francis recalls. “I told her you don't like women.” 

Jopson's face goes from its usual rosy pink to bright red as he helps Francis return to bed, shifting the pillows so he might sit up. “I wouldn't say I dislike them." His tone is defensive. As well it might be, Francis supposes. 

Another aimless memory from those days bobs to the surface of Francis' maelstrom mind: the strange dog-like animal Sir John Franklin had in his drawing room. A curious beast, but still one of God's creatures. “'Nothing made by God can be seen as unnatural.'” Francis quotes aloud, although the source of the phrase eludes him. Was it Sir John who said it? It sounds like him. “I believe that,” he adds. Francis wonders if Jopson remembers the animal. If he ever laid eyes on one while they were there.

“I'll, I'll, I'll fetch you a drink of water, sir,” Jopson says, his normally smooth voice disrupted by an uncharacteristic stammer. Francis understands. The poor man must be exhausted, caring for him like this. It's a thankless, endless task, even when Francis manages to sleep through the night. As he did last night. Didn't he? “Or would you like to try a cup of tea?”

“Just the water, I think.” A wave of nausea, an unwanted guest with which Francis has been intimately familiar of late, returns while Jopson rearranges his blankets, then takes up the chamber pot. 

“I'll be right back.” 

The moment he's gone, the wave crests, and Francis vomits, yet again, into the waiting bucket beside his bed.

**Author's Note:**

> The thylacine, also known as the Tasmanian tiger and the Tasmanian wolf, was declared extinct in 1936, but a number of recent sightings indicate there might still be some in the wild. (And there's an end note I never thought I'd write on AO3.) You can watch a brief video of one [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vqCCI1ZF7o), taken in a zoo in the 1930s.


End file.
